CHANGES AND STRANGE SCENES 
navigator follows the coast for a few hours, when, 
rounding a promontory on his right, he catches his 
first glimpse of this anchorage. The Government 
post of Port Moresby, although picturesquely situated 
among rolling hills which slope down to the water's 
edge, is in itself unpretentious enough—merely a 
collection of houses and offices of bare, galvanised 
iron, architecturally as insignificant as rabbit hutches. 
During the day the temperature resembles Hades or 
Aden, whichever may have the priority. Here the 
British official chooses to abide, although comfort- 
able houses of sago, with thick grass thatch, cool on 
the hottest day, offering a delightful dwelling-place, 
might be had only a few miles distant. A paternal 
administration, however, prescribes galvanised iron, 
and there its servants swelter, patient and uncom- 
plaining, after the manner of Britons. 
Clustered about the Government buildings are 
various other buildings—the jail, which more re- 
sembles a pleasure-ground, shipping offices, stores, 
and the hotel. On an elevation at the farther end 
of the bay stands Government House, a pleasantly- 
situated bungalow raised off the ground on five-foot 
posts. The best building in the place, as one might 
expect, is the station of the London Missionary Society. 
Life at Port Moresby is not without its events, and 
one of the most noteworthy of its public spectacles, 
and one which I was fortunate enough to see on 
a subsequent visit, is the annual starting of the 
lakatows or huge sailing rafts, laden with pottery 
for trade in the western part of the possession. 
Those who are familiar with the postage-stamp of 
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